


Outside Context

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Sapphire and Steel, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: intoabar, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene Adler's return to London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Outside Context

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was: Sapphire walks into a bar and meets... Irene Adler!

Irene Adler had been back in London for two weeks, living quietly under an assumed identity, and the city had never felt so empty. Jim Moriarty was dead, Sherlock Holmes was dead, and if anyone had asked her, she couldn't have said which of the two had left the greater gap in her life. 

Her aimless footsteps had taken her from her rented flat to the nearest drinking establishment: a tavern of ancient heritage, which, thanks to the efforts of its latest owners, now rejoiced in the name of the Pig and Porcupine. Seated in a quiet corner, she watched its clientele pass to and fro. If she'd so desired, she could have had her pick of any one of them, men or women. But her problem wasn't to be solved on a physical level. 

She took another sip of her wine, and let her gaze drift across the room once more. It rested briefly on a tall, ruddy, grey-haired man holding forth about the iniquities of Messrs Cameron and Clegg. He was most likely a company director, she decided. The sort who might well pay for her services, if she'd felt inclined to offer them. The woman beside him was almost certainly not his wife. If she'd wanted, she could have detached him from her — or, for preference, vice versa — but that would hardly have presented a challenge. The same went for the young couple on the window seat: a soldier and a call-centre worker by the look of them, whose relationship wasn't going through an easy patch. The thin man by the door: gay, and probably didn't realise it himself. The tall blonde who'd just walked in... _ah._

Irene was familiar enough with aristocrats; she'd dealt with enough of them on a professional basis. This woman definitely carried herself like one, and her restrained powder-blue dress reinforced the impression of wealth and taste. She certainly wasn't anything like the usual clientele. Maybe it was all a facade, of course, but in some ways that was even more interesting: she would have had to spend a great deal of time and effort to construct such a consistent masquerade. Yes, Irene would enjoy getting to know her better; she might even turn out to be as enjoyable as the Duchess of Beaumont had been. 

It must have been a coincidence, but at that precise moment the woman turned round; her eyes met Irene's, and held them briefly. Then she turned back to the bar, and concluded her transaction. 

Outwardly, Irene remained calm. Somewhere within her, the thrill of the chase had woken. Whoever this woman was, Irene wanted to get the measure of her. Of her _mind_ , she clarified to herself: she could make a decision about getting physical later. She looked up again, to see the unknown woman heading in her direction. 

"Is this seat taken?" the stranger asked, as she approached Irene's table. 

"Go ahead," Irene said. 

The woman sat down. For some seconds, the two remained silent, their gazes locked. Then the woman broke eye contact, with a polite cough. 

"It's a long time since I've been here," she said. "They've changed the name, haven't they? It used to be called the Grantham Arms." 

"That's right." 

"It would be nice if people left things alone, once in a while." 

"Where would the fun be in that?" 

The woman gave Irene another searching look. "Ill-considered choices can lead to other things than fun." 

"You're speaking from experience, I take it." 

"Quite right. Perhaps I should introduce myself. Good evening: I'm Sapphire." 

Irene raised her eyebrows. "Nothing else? Just 'Sapphire'?" 

"It's enough, isn't it?" 

It was, of course: Sapphire's name fitted her to perfection, to the point where it was impossible to imagine her with any other. The woman's identity and behaviour had to be a deliberate act — no real life could be this flawless and consistent. 

"If you say so," Irene said out loud. Her senses felt heightened: every last detail of Sapphire's clothes and face seemed preternaturally clear. "Do you really think you're a detective, or are you just playing at it?" 

Sapphire leaned forward slightly. "'Playing'. Do you think of everything in the world as a game?" 

Irene matched the move. "No. Only the important things." 

"So I'm important. How flattering." 

"You're good enough to play." Irene lowered her voice. "Winning is another matter." 

"And what makes you think I have the slightest interest in playing any sort of game with you?" 

"You're still here. You could have laughed in my face and walked out." 

Sapphire shook her head. "I couldn't have done that." 

"Because?" Irene asked triumphantly. 

"Because this conversation is an opportunity I can't afford to miss." 

"Then you _do_ want something from me. Information?" She watched Sapphire's expression closely. "Yes, information. You didn't just happen to walk in here by chance." 

"That's very perceptive of you." 

"Then tell me why you think I'm going to help you." 

They were both leaning forward now, their hands on the table. "Do you seriously expect me to offer you a bribe?" Sapphire asked. 

"That's up to you." Irene's eyes held Sapphire's. She surely couldn't fail to work out what Irene would require of her, and it wouldn't be money. 

"There's very little I have that you'd want." 

"I've heard that from a number of people. Most of them managed to think of something." 

"Such as?" 

"Oh, that would be telling." 

"A favour, perhaps." 

"Now you're getting there." 

Sapphire looked mildly annoyed. "This is another one of your games." 

Irene patted Sapphire's cheek. "And one you won't be able to avoid losing." 

"In that case, I don't think we can come to an agreement." Sapphire sat back in her chair. "Pity, but there it is." She pushed her chair back, and held out her hand. "Good night." 

Irene felt a brief flare of annoyance. She'd have expected more of Sapphire than to give up at the first setback. No doubt she'd guessed part or all of what she'd have had to offer to Irene — starting with her dignity, and working up from there — but she might have made at least some effort to negotiate. Irene shook the proffered hand, and looked, one more time, into that impossibly appropriate face. 

Sapphire's eyes were glowing. 

_You gave me what I wanted,_ Sapphire said, without moving her lips. _I knew when you touched me._

How was she doing this? Some trick — or had she drugged Irene somehow? 

_There's a distortion in time,_ Sapphire's thoughts continued. _A tangle, if you like. A pattern, a hundred and twenty years old, slowly distorting history, drawing more and more people in. I need to stop it: that meant finding a loose end. Pull it, and the whole pattern will unravel._

Irene tried to pull her hand away, and found she couldn't. 

_However uncomfortable that might be for the loose end in question. I'm sorry, Irene Adler — and goodbye._

The lights flickered briefly. Perhaps it had been an electrical surge, or perhaps Irene had just blinked. 

Irene felt her hand released, and saw Sapphire rise to her feet and unhurriedly walk away. It took her a moment or two to collect her thoughts, but before Sapphire was halfway to the door Irene was in pursuit, weaving her way through the pub's patrons. No more than ten seconds after Sapphire had left the building, Irene was at the door. Outside, a few feeble gas lights struggled against the night and fog. Sapphire was nowhere to be seen. 

Irene listened. Among all the near and far sounds of the city she picked out the distant whistle of a goods train, and, close at hand, the pub bore still regaling his mistress with the iniquities of Gladstone and Lord Salisbury. What Irene felt certain, though, was that there was no sound of wheels or hooves; Sapphire had not been spirited away in a carriage or a hackney cab. She glanced rapidly around. The only person in sight was a grubby-looking urchin, leaning against the wall near a poster advertising the Palace Theatre. 

"Where did she go?" she asked. "The lady in blue?" 

"I ain't seen no-one," the lad replied. 

"Talk sense, child. I saw her come out of the tavern. Did she pay you to hold your tongue?" 

"I wish! Look, there ain't no lady come out of that pub in the last hour. Spare a farthing, ma'am?" 

"Here's sixpence." Irene delved in her purse, the money feeling momentarily awkward and heavy in her hand. "If you see her, call out. She's wearing a blue dress and her hair—" 

The guttersnipe was holding out his hand for the coin. "Yes?" 

"I can't—" Irene tried in vain to hang onto the thread of her thoughts. "I can't remember. Never mind. It wasn't important." 

She made her way back into the Grantham Arms, ignoring the boy's protest. As she did so, the last traces of her train of thought — of London more than a hundred years in the future, and of an impossible woman in blue — vanished from her head. 

She picked up her reticule, set her hat on her head, and set out for her home in St John's Wood. It was a pity, she mused, that the evening had been so lacking in events of interest.


End file.
